


Asklepian

by sallysorrell



Series: Red Strings [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Doctor John Watson, Doctor/Patient, Drug Addiction, Drug Use, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Sherlock Is A Bit Not Good
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-26
Updated: 2013-08-30
Packaged: 2017-12-24 16:42:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,425
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/942205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sallysorrell/pseuds/sallysorrell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A treat for lovers of symbolism and continuity in the Sherlock canon. Witness everything from drug-addiction to domesticity (and just as much alliteration!) at 221B.  Moriarty, when he gets bored, gets obsessive, and aims to make Sherlock's damaged Mind Palace more physical.  Just like the show, it can be read with or without the Johnlock.  This piece is tons of fun to write and I would love to hear your thoughts!  (An optional companion piece to 'Watch Him Dance'.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Venom

**Asklepian: the symbol of medicine, a wooden staff encircled by a snake.**

* * *

_How is it possible to be both selfish and selfless?_

Moriarty stumbled to the door, humming to himself and avoiding the eyes of everyone he passed. He arrived at a dark and lonely Baker Street flat, silently sliding his key into the lock.

_The King and his key-ring._

In his other hand, he kept a briefcase. Not large enough to be suspicious, but not too small to neglect expensive branding and embroidery. He crept past the landlady's rooms, then up the narrow staircase.

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were away on a case. He knew this because he'd directed them there. Anonymously.

His visits were careful but frequent. Despite the darkness, he easily found Sherlock's room. He set the briefcase down on the half-made bed and produced a torch from inside it. Holding up the light, he began shuffling through the detective's drawers.

Using his phone, he took a picture of the meticulously-maintained drawer of socks. When replacing them, he needed to ensure every detail was correct. John was never so thorough, and was unavailable to catch the blame.

Once the drawer was cleared of the socks, he reached his goal: Sherlock's prized swatch of leather and canvas, tied shut with shaky fingers, and gathering too much dust for Moriarty's liking. Being careful not to shake off even a single speck of it, he opened the pouch and counted stolen spoons, secondhand syringes, and a battle-worn belt.

_It's so kind of me_ He thought, chuckling to himself, _to maintain his 'palace.'_

From his own case, he took a vial and a fine paintbrush. He held the torch between his teeth, dipped the brush in the scarlet liquid, and coated the tip of each needle.

_Selfless and selfish,_ His thoughts repeated, _I should_ _ **always**_ _be on his mind... He's always on mine._

He delicately reset the room, and his departure from Baker Street was graceful.

Sherlock's arrival, however, was not.

He leapt up the stairs and pounded on the light-switch with more enthusiasm than John had ever seen.

"That's it, then?" he tried to whisper as he followed, hoping they wouldn't wake Mrs Hudson.

"Yes." said Sherlock. He entered his room and slammed the door, "We were beaten by a common criminal. A toddler's scribbling, hailed as artwork. There is no such thing as 'abstract', and yet I've been blinded."

John knocked on his door, but did not wait for confirmation before entering. He stood in the doorway, glancing gently at his friend:

"I'll be upstairs."

"Ah, yes," he snapped, "My _common_ mind had forgotten where your room was."

"Right, fine." John shrugged, "I'm just saying; you can't get _every_ case, and it's fine if you want to talk about it, or just whinge or whatever. That's all..."

"Yes." Sherlock was not looking at him. He was comparing the dressing-gowns in his closet and hoping to avoid sleep for as long as possible. If he slept, he could not think.

John sighed, turned, and shut the door when he left.

Having selected a gown, Sherlock threw it over his shoulders then dug through his sock-drawer. He noticed no imperfections, and rapidly emptied it. Once the leather pouch was uncovered, he stared madly. With twitching fingers, he reached out for it, but, as he stretched his arm, the gown slid up to reveal his skin. He was inspired:

"Patches!" he called, knowing John had not made it upstairs yet. He was, in fact, in the kitchen, sifting through science-experiments to find some biscuits and a newspaper.

"Hmm?"

Sherlock heard his footsteps, and quickly replaced the socks and shut the drawer. Again, John stood in the doorway, clutching a can of biscuits and a cup of cold tea. Sherlock's eyes glimmered as he growled:

"Patches. I need one." he glanced at his arm, "No, two."

"You finished the box off yesterday, didn't you?"

" _You_ keep them, _Doctor—"_

"Yeah, so I c—"

"In the drawer of the desk in your bedroom, beside your handgun. As I recall, the box _is_ empty, yes, but you haven't thrown it out. That can't be sentiment; that's just idleness."

"Sherlock," he sighed, "Not now. You can go a night without, alright? I'll stay up, and we'll watch telly..."

"You'll stay up," he corrected, still sitting on the floor, "And get me patches. I _need_ patches."

Based on their short, shared glances, John caved to this recommendation. As he watched Sherlock shake and sweat beneath the silky gown, he nodded and gave a partial smile:

"Right. Won't be long."

Sherlock provided a false promise to make coffee, while John considered nearby chemists.

When he was alone, the detective returned his focus to the drawer. He studied the pouch, hastily untying it and heaving it open. He counted the outlines on his skin, where the patches typically rested. Somehow, these spots were paler than the rest of him. They felt grainy and gummy, as he traced his fingers along them. Compulsively, he reached to remedy this with the needles. He felt a promise he'd made to John, crumbling as he held up his best syringe. It was used most frequently, and displayed a thick, evaporated film and some leftover solution.

He tore off the dressing-gown, because the sleeves would not remain firmly rolled up. The belt was clenched between his teeth, though he could not force himself to loop it around his forearm. He panted, sighed, and held the needle up to the light. Through his finely-tuned fascination, he observed a red dot on the tip of the needle. It was not his blood. It was not _anyone's_ blood.

Like in a fairytale, Sherlock pricked his fingertip with the syringe. Moriarty would be proud, when he came to inspect his work.

The paint strayed from the metal and was joined by a single fleck of his blood. He stared. His eyes were deep and his breaths were shallow.

"No." he tried to say, but the sound was soft and garbled as he held his face in his hands.

He continued staring and shaking his head. His blood was orange, then purple, then black. Orange, purple, and black, and absolutely _pouring_ from his body, trading places with the filling of the syringe. He gasped and he shuddered. The belt constricted his arm, and he watched the venom course through his veins. He tugged the belt until it was as tight as possible.

"No." he said, more clearly. He shut his eyes and focused.

Somewhere in his palace, he kept a room about mythology. He found a map to get there, stairs to climb, doors to pass. He saw paintings; ancient medicine, the snake entwined around the staff, healers diluting venom. There stood Moriarty, barring the door and dangling the keys. Sherlock stretched to reach them. Moriarty laughed, and tossed the keys to the ground. When Sherlock stooped to catch them, he found himself falling through the floor, and all the rooms of his precious palace melted together, hidden by Moriarty's face.

His eyes flashed open.

"John!" the word trembled on his lips, " _John_."

He could not recall sending the doctor away, so he struggled to his feet. He failed, and crawled, instead, to the bedroom door. One hand slid into the threshold, trapped against the floor. When he looked up at the handle, he only saw Moriarty. No keys. No escape. No _John_ ; he would not be able to come in. Unacceptable.

Sherlock tugged on the door and leaned against it. He cried the name into the wood.

He took the syringe and carved it there, as well. He could not open the door. Moriarty was there. He carefully scooped up the abandoned syringe, refilled it, and left a message on the pane. The letters glowed, but Sherlock could not read them. He could barely see through invented clouds and smoke; his palace blazed and burned.

The syringe was empty. While he thought he wrote on the door, he had been jabbing his forearm. He winced but did not stop.

"Sherlock?" eventually, John's voice crept under the door, "Are you alright?"

He tried to enter the room, but Sherlock's weight prevented it. The detective had entered a treacherous spell of sleep, sweating and continuously stabbing his arm. Blood stained the floor, and John noticed it.

"Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?"

He shoved the door open, dropping the new box of nicotine-patches into the puddle of blood. He was angry and frightened, but this was overthrown by concern. The doctor knelt and considered his patient. John shook his shoulders until he awoke.

"John?" gasped Sherlock. He prepared a slurred speech about Moriarty, but John shoved him to his bed and ensnared him in the blankets. The belt was stripped from his arm, and nested beside him. It was cold against his skin.

"I don't wanna hear it, Sherlock, and you don't have to say it."

Using Sherlock's former dressing-gown, John wiped the blood from the floor. He collected the leather case and its contents, and considered calling Lestrade to ensure a proper disposal. He'd call in the morning, he decided. Maybe.


	2. Antivenom

John did _not_ call Lestrade. He stuffed everything back into the pouch, tied it shut with the belt, and added it to the drawer among his gun and the patches.

Instead, John spent the morning rearranging the sock-drawer. Frequently, he checked Sherlock's breathing, and dismissed the dreams he described. There would be no lecture or penalty.

When the detective properly awoke, John was sitting in his chair before the fireplace. Sherlock leaned against the bedroom door and demanded a drink. John shrugged and poured two cups of black coffee; he brought Sherlock his packets of sugar, so he could determine whether the shaking had subsided overnight. It had; with ease, Sherlock stirred his coffee, and moved it steadily to his mouth. He inhaled the steam and sighed, while John watched.

"I'm fine." urged Sherlock, between sips.

" _Of_ course you are," sighed John, "Better wrap your arm up, though."

"My arm?" Sherlock returned to the bed, and leaned against the wall.

"Yeah. Would've done last night, but I didn't want to keep the blood and… everything in."

He brought in a towel from the kitchen, and bandages and peroxide from his first-aid kit. Once the skin was clean and dry, John inspected the incisions.

"I don't remember." Sherlock offered, refusing to admit he was afraid, "Poison."

"That's what I'd call it." he made sure his tone was welcomingly flat. Sherlock did not like hearing critiques, and John did not like giving them. For this reason, he found it worthless to speak to Harry.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, thin and filmy, while John unrolled a similar bandage. As John wrapped his arm, he stared at the ceiling and muttered to himself:

"The snake." he said, most often. John stopped and caught his attention.

"Hmm?"

"I can't remember the name," Sherlock was agitated, and twitched impatiently, "Moriarty was…"

"Moriarty?"

"The snake." Sherlock corrected him, and his shaking worsened. With just his eyes, John asked if he was feeling better. Sherlock understood and vaguely listed his symptoms, like a frightened child. With his temporary knowledge of astronomy, he claimed his stomach had become a black-hole and reclaimed all of his organs. His head, apparently, was a hollow gun-barrel, craving a bullet. John did not like this analogy, and quickly cut him off:

"When did you eat last?"

"Today's…?"

"Sunday." said John, accustomed to this sort of pattern. Sherlock continued disappointing himself:

"I don't remember."

"We'll start with that, then. That'll help."

"Fine." Sherlock agreed, pulling the sheets over his face. Content, John left.

As much as the battlefield cried out for John, the thing he missed most was _healing_. When there were others in need of his help, he even found it possible to heal himself. Otherwise, he was at the bottom of his list of priorities. Sherlock, of course, had scribbled out the rest of this list by now, and written his name across the whole thing in bold, bright letters.

John considered this as he prepared toast in the kitchen. Toast and tea. Something gentle.

"Here," he said, setting the plate atop the blanket, over the outlines of Sherlock's hands, "I'll be upstairs."

He was not thanked, and Sherlock did not bother moving until John was out of the room.

Sherlock sighed as he ate, and focused only on the blinding bandage. It was coiled around his arm, and John did a perfect job of hiding _every_ mark.

For most of the day, they sat in silence. John did make it to his own room, and glanced between his laptop and newspaper. Sherlock sat on the bed and thought.

"John," he began, after many hours. His throat was dry and the word scratched him. He had only finished half of his toast and none of his tea. Boring.

The doctor appeared at his side and looked him over:

"You alright?"

Sherlock was comfortable speaking, once entirely hidden by blankets. His voice was muffled:

"I was selfish."

"No," said John, kindly, "You were an idiot."

Sherlock laughed, and John joined him. This was typical, when they shared serious discussions.

"Kept the toast down?" John was always first to recover the conversation.

Sherlock nodded, but indicated the plate. He had set it on top of the end-table. This was the extent of his daily activity.

"Good." John decided, "So you're feeling better...?"

Sherlock dropped the blanket from his face and forced himself to sit up.

"No. I couldn't solve the case, yesterday," he was quiet, "Or remember the name, or eating, or the holes, or…"

"It's alright," said John, offering his hand. Sherlock stared at it and did not move from the bed. John shrugged, yawned, and decided to sit down beside him.

Ever so slightly, Sherlock trembled beneath the sheets. John noticed this, then the sky, darkening against the window:

"Want a nicotine-patch?" John could not force himself to say 'need', even though the detective's frail frame and empty eyes demanded it. He was determined to be a decent doctor, even though he _knew_ Sherlock would be a rubbish patient:

"God, yes. Two."

" _One_." he indicated the uninjured arm with a light tap. The other, where Sherlock generally applied his patches, was speckled with blood and constricted by the cast. Standing up, John promised to refresh it in the morning.

John went upstairs to retrieve the box from his drawer. It was the new one he'd purchased last night, with the blood-stained corner torn off. Compulsively, he yawned again, after noting the time on his watch. Swiftly, he returned to Sherlock.

"One." he repeated, standing in the doorway and tossing him the box, "I'll be—."

"Upstairs." Sherlock interrupted, selecting a patch and peeling it open. He practically inhaled the label.

"Next-door." breathed John, "I'll be next-door, if you need me."

"I won't." as he reached for a second patch, John snatched the box away.

"Right, well… you owe me."

"Yes. I'll remember that." said Sherlock, in the tainted tone he usually reserved for Mycroft, "Sleep well."

Simultaneously, John accepted two things: first, he would consider this a genuine message despite being buried irretrievably beneath sarcasm, and second, he would ignore it. He would not sleep well at all.

He retired to his armchair and ignited the fireplace. His dreams were short and glowed among the coals.

* * *

Moriarty liked to keep his visits consistent; he arrived at the same time as he had the previous night. Now, though, he knew to be quicker and quieter.

He was silent as he climbed the stairs. He did not bring a briefcase.

The gloves he wore, of course, were new and expensive. Between his hands he held a knot of red ribbon. Absently, he braided it and twisted it. He stood in the common area and glanced at the doctor. His eyes were shut but he was not sleeping. His breathing was heavy and troubled, and sweat shaded his brow.

_Typical,_ Moriarty thought as he passed him, _the guard-dog at the door..._

He was thrilled to find the detective asleep, buried in blankets. Moriarty slid open the sock-drawer and placed a single needle at the back. Then, his mission called him further upstairs. He dug through John's desk for the leather case, grinning as he uncoupled it from the gun. Always loaded.

_How original._

He set the pouch on tabletop and untied it. None of the contents were altered; just the belt. Moriarty was fond of its history and, conveniently, its style. He exchanged this for the ribbon, and returned the package to the drawer.

Sherlock would not search for his syringes, in fear of disappointing John.

John would _not_ open the drawer until he needed to. Even then, he wouldn't call Lestrade.


	3. Rules

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, last chapter! If you haven't read 'Watch Him Dance', I'd recommend it, so you can enjoy all the parallels :)  
> I know this fandom loves deduction, so please go crazy about the symbolism.  
> *screams from the rooftop (of St Bart's)* Moriarty is so much fun to write!  
> Er, enough from me... Enjoy the conclusion!

John awoke to a text, and Sherlock to what he guessed was a nightmare. Both became equally confused.

Sherlock brushed both hands over his face and kept his eyes shut.

He was content in feeling the syringe in his hand, hovering over its mark. He imagined the belt, clenched tight between bleeding teeth, and suffocating his forearm. Both John and Moriarty stood in front of him, eyes wide and glossy. They competed for attention, waving and demanding the needle be dropped. He ran to the uppermost room of his Palace, slammed the door shut, and locked himself inside. He would ignore them both; he continued grinning at his arm as it swelled. The keys jangled in Moriarty's hand. One slithered into the door just as the needle punctured Sherlock's skin…

John re-read the message and hoped it was composed in code; he couldn't understand it, otherwise. He was cautious of Sherlock's recovery, then reminded himself how thrilled the detective would be to decipher a message, instead of sit in his bed all day.

He found Sherlock, as he expected, leaning against the bed-post, fingers folded and perfectly aligned.

"I'm not supposed to have nightmares, John." said Sherlock, staring past him, "They solve nothing."

John looked at him with quirked brows.

"Nightmares?" he reached for his shoulder, and counted the stitches.

"Yes. _Average_ minds produce nightmares." Sherlock spat. He folded his arms and fell back to his heap of pillows, "I am becoming _average,_ John. It's all getting worse."

"Your arm looks better," led John, gently, "Did y—"

"I know it does."

He considered the phone, still buzzing in his pocket:

"Did, er, did your brother text you just now?"

Even though Sherlock kept his eyes shut, John knew he rolled them, as his eyebrows enthusiastically followed along, and his lips curled.

"Well, he texted me, and it… it's gotta be a code or something. Do you know what it means?"

Sherlock offered one open eye as John leaned over to showcase the message:

I should hope you keep a loaded gun, Dr Watson.  
MH

Sherlock remained silent, and rubbed habitually at his bandaged arm. His fingernails clawed beneath it, scratching the raw wounds and longing to refresh the poison, rather than the wrap. John tugged his hand away, and dropped it over the edge of the bed. Then John read the text aloud, in case Sherlock had ignored him.

"A valid question." said Sherlock flatly, "I am not capable of defending myself, according to Mycroft."

"Defending yourself from what?" John's words were slow and scared. Sherlock's were neither:

"I've _told_ Mycroft to turn off his cameras. I've told him a dozen times."

"That doesn't answer my question, now does it?" John stared at Sherlock until his eyes flashed open. They scanned the room, ignited by new colours.

Sherlock began with frightening sincerity, quickly poisoned by annoyance:

"Sorry. It's _so_ obvious. You haven't brought me a code, John, or a case. Moriarty has. Oh, clever, clever. Brilliant!"

"Sorry?"

"Yes, you heard me perfectly w—"

"Not that," John ran his hands nervously through his hair, and sat on the foot of the bed, "You said 'Moriarty.'"

"Yes."

"As in, we need to protect you from Moriarty?"

"We? Mycroft only texted _you_."

At this moment, Sherlock stood. His phone, abandoned on the bedside table, began vibrating. John, who never bothered to change out of his clothes the previous evening, noticed a similar vibration in his trouser-pocket.

They looked at each other, then at their mobile phones. When compared, they found identical messages:

Is it loaded?

The number withheld its identity, and no signature was present.

"Moriarty," they breathed together.

* * *

_At least I entertain myself,_ Moriarty thought, as he paced in the foyer of his lavish house. He consulted his phone, a laptop, and a series of monitoring screens.

He proclaimed each frame as 'dull', as they flickered over the monitors. His phone buzzed:

  
_[1] New message from Baaaby:_  
Of course.  
SH

He chuckled, having forgotten the name he assigned to Sherlock's mobile number, and continued the conversation:

It's a date.  
XOXO

  
Tonight?  
SH

  
Don't be boring.

  
When?  
SH

Be patient. Daddy always takes good care of you.

* * *

Incredulously, John shook his head. Sherlock sat on the bed, legs and arms folded up, typing enthusiastically.

"That's it? You're just _texting_ him?"

Sherlock continued doing so.

"He's coming here?"

"Is this really so difficult? Sit down and write out the equation, if you must, D—."

"Not _now_ , Sherlock." John tried to sound as if he was speaking to a child, or a well-intentioned dog.

Sherlock shrugged.

"Why would he ask if my gun's loaded?" John continued, irritated by the silence, "Does he _want_ me to shoot him? I will, the second he steps onto Baker Street. Would've done already…"

"The question," hummed Sherlock, "Was for me."

"About _my_ gun?"

"I know exactly what it's about." Sherlock turned harshly toward the door, "Breakfast?"

John decided to save his questions, so Sherlock could answer them all at once. He also declared this was the last day he would make Sherlock's breakfast, as he was healing so nicely. Sherlock noticed the trap, but gladly fell into it, and argued he was far too weak and _average_.

"Average, _normal_ people make their own food, Sherlock. Every day."

The detective, in a fantastically childish display of sulking, shoved John into the kitchen and shut the door behind him. John tried out several snide responses, while standing up on his toes to reach the coffee-canister.

* * *

Several days later, Moriarty sat and sipped his coffee at _Speedy's._ An extra cup, filled with weak tea, waited across from him.

_That Molly Hooper,_ He shook his head and clicked his tongue, _Smarter than I hoped she'd be…_

He glanced back and forth between his phone and his laptop, screen dim and barely open. He watched grainy video flicker over the screen, and turned to smile and wave out the window. When his image passed the screen, only delayed by a few seconds, he was content. This was celebrated with the purchase of an extra pastry.

_For Irene, I guess. Since Molly's stood me up._ He pouted as he stood. Moriarty left a substantial stack of pound-notes on the table, and refused to accept the change. Before he left, though, he checked one final angle of the camera. He could see Sherlock, just barely, facing his bedroom window, fingers shaking.

* * *

The detective grappled with his phone, and attempted to compose a text:

Come and play.  
SH

What he actually typed, though, was a string of random numbers and letters. The message was never sent.

He peered vacantly through the window, scratching his arms and wiping his sweaty face.

_Is it loaded?_ His thoughts echoed this repeatedly, until the words sickened him. The answer was found when he tore open his drawer, crumpled up the index-page, and dug feverishly for his leather case.

In its place, he found a single needle. He considered John, peacefully asleep in the room above him, and already began begging for forgiveness. His eyes were raw, dry, and red, as he tipped the syringe on its side and considered its capacity.

_Enough,_ he decided, _not too much._

His twitching fingers were not capable of following this advice; the syringe was emptied entirely. The solution was sticky, and slow in seeping through his skin. When it entered his blood, he felt it. His eyes grew dark and desperate.

"John!" the word choked him, and refused to leave his lips. It was replaced by unsettling saliva, dribbling from both sides of his mouth. He reached to wipe his face, but every muscle in his arm burned.

He heard nothing. His throat inflated, and his ears rang sharply. He stumbled over the border of unconsciousness, as Moriarty skulked into the room.

The puppeteer reached for the violin-bow Sherlock kept on his bed-side table. He looked crookedly at the strings before replacing it.

"Left your present downstairs." Moriarty grinned and let the words slip through his teeth.

Sherlock's head fell to his shoulder. His eyes were open in vain; his vision was cloudy and not remedied by blinking.

"Shh," said Moriarty, brushing one finger quickly across Sherlock's lips. He wiped his hand angrily on his trousers, "You won't remember. You'll feel fine in the morning, as long as you don't fall asleep."

Sherlock attempted an affirmative nod.

"You'll smile for the camera, won't you?" He took his phone from his inner coat-pocket, "Mine and Mycroft's…"

He stepped back, in order to capture the whole bedroom in the image. Sherlock held up his crossed wrists, watching the warmth in his veins.

"Perfect," said Moriarty, looking fondly at the finished picture. He dropped his phone into its home, "It wears off quickly, I'm afraid. I'd best be going. Those are the rules of the game."

The detective squeezed his forearm, hoping he could extract the poison. He forced his mouth crookedly over the wound, but Moriarty ran to redirect him.

"No cheating." He said, "You just need to stay awake, and John needs to stay asleep. _Rules._ "

_John?_ Sherlock's eyes begged. His skin was pale and hollow, _Is it loaded?_

"Not permanently," said Moriarty, successfully reading Sherlock's pained expression, "An owner should be there to comfort his dying pet."

Sherlock, in absence of the belt, tugged nervously at his watch.

"No need to be dramatic. There's no one here to impress. Except me, I guess. But, here's a secret… I'm _not_ impressed by you. I'm not afraid of you. And I'm not going to lose to you, Sherlock. No, no."

He loomed in the doorway while Sherlock slumped back in silent pain.

"You'll feel fine in the morning." he sang, turning to leave. He called over his shoulder, "That's when the game begins."


End file.
